


Turned My Dreams to Shame

by sheyrenawyrsabane



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, He's still sad, Tyler Seguin is a Maple Leaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheyrenawyrsabane/pseuds/sheyrenawyrsabane
Summary: Tyler Seguin goes second overall to the Toronto Maple Leafs.It's a rocky start.





	Turned My Dreams to Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maybeitstimetoearnmybluebead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybeitstimetoearnmybluebead/gifts).



> For the exchange. I am not super up on my Leafs from this era so apologies for any players I get wrong. Writing from Phaneuf's point of view was fun and mostly out of self-preservation because if I wrote it from Seguin's then it would've been even sadder. Though if I wanted something fluffier than I shouldn't have named it after a song from Les Mis. So there's that. It was a fun thought experiment, though, and I hope you enjoy!

They name Dion captain on June 14th. Eleven days later, management goes to LA and with their second overall pick draft Tyler Seguin to the Toronto Maple Leafs. Dion takes one look at the baby-faced kid and thinks  _ fuck. _

Two hours later when the Toronto reporters at the draft find the kid and corner him, they smile like sharks and ask, “What does it mean for you to be drafted by the Toronto Maple Leafs? You’re an Ontario boy. Do you think you’re the one to bring the Cup back to Toronto?”

And Tyler- _ fucking _ -Seguin with his smooth _ -fucking- _ baby-face fucking  _ blushes _ and says, “That’s the dream isn’t it?” and for the second time today, Dion looks up at the ceiling and thinks  _ fuck _ .

He should’ve turned down the fucking C.

#

Before the day is even done, there are two articles claiming that Seguin is cocky for a kid who should’ve been drafted number one and slipped. There are five building him up into the savior of the franchise. Those are the ones Dion’s worried about.

Every first-rounder is accused of being cocky. Hell, most second and third-rounders too. People don’t make it to the NHL if they aren’t confident. It’s easy for the media to spin confident into cocky. The one who are ready for the jump and the League, they shrug it off.

Seguin doesn’t seem like the shrug it off type.

Dion hopes he’s wrong.

#

“What are you thoughts on the draft?” one of the local guys asks Dion.

It’s a phone interview which means Dion can roll his eyes. Stupid fucking question. “It’s always fun to see the talent management recruits. Youth is good for the team.”

_ Fresh blood,  _ he thinks,  _ I know you’ve already scented it. Will you even give the kid a chance? _

“Seguin can certainly score goals. Do you think it’ll translate once he’s on the big stage?”

“I think he’s like any player,” Dion says. “There’ll be an adjustment period, but he’ll be an asset to our organization.”

The guy spins it of course and publishes a shit article saying that Dion doesn’t believe in Toronto’s rising young star.

#

He knew from watching the draft that Seguin is young.

He doesn’t realize how young until the first day of training camp when the kid shows up, bubbly excitement that can’t be contained, hugging everyone who will stand still and introducing himself.

To everyone but Dion.

At first, Dion thinks maybe the kid’s intimidated. 

Dion’s a big dude.

And he has the C now.

When he tells Kabby this, the asshole laughs at him. Once he’s done, Kabby shrugs and says, “You did kind of tell the entire fucking world that you think he’s overrated.”

“Did not,” Dion says.

Kabby shrugs again. “It’s that or the hot new thing likes everyone but you. Probably because you have an ugly fucking face.”

“Don’t objectify him,” Dion says.

Kabby laughs so hard, Dion’s pretty sure he stops breathing. Serves the fucker right.

#

Once they’re all in the locker room, changing after their second practice, Seguin--already Segsy--slings an arm around Bozie’s shoulders. It’s not the first time Segsy’s been touchy-feely with the guys, and it isn’t even the first time he’s done it when they’re not wearing all of their clothes.

Kid’s a fucking trainwreck.

“Us Tylers have gotta stick together,” Segsy says. His fingers curl around Bozie’s bare shoulder.

Bozie, also baby-faced but old enough to know better, turns pink. “Sure, Segs.” He pats Segs’s ass, and the rookie grins at him.

“Dude, you gotta buy a guy dinner first.”

“What?” Bozie asks.

Segs bats his eyelashes. 

Dion looks across the locker room to where Kabby is watching the exchange, shaking his head.

“Take yourself to dinner,” Bozie says, way too late.

“Tylers,” Segs reminds him. “Name twins for life.”

“What?” Bozie asks again, weaker this time. 

Dion isn’t even a little bit surprised when Segs shows up to practice the next day and tells everyone, loudly, about the restaurant Bozie took them to. It was a place with a dress code. He seems very excited about this small fact. 

#

Dion manages to corner Segsy after team dinner. He’s not ashamed to have needed Kabby help arrange it. Kabby keeps passing Segs glasses of water until the kid finally has to stop entertaining his end of the table to take a piss. 

Dion waits to the count of five before following him. 

It wasn’t long enough. The kid still has his dick out when Dion joins him in the bathroom. Dion doesn’t even pretend he’s here to do anything but talk. He leans against one of the sinks and stares pointedly at the floor.

“Well,” Segsy says. “This isn’t weird at all.”

Dion has a dozen jokes about Segs being used to being alone in bathrooms with other dudes or having his dick out around other dudes but he swallows them back. He and Segs don’t have a rapport yet and he doesn’t want to come across as an asshole. 

“I’m trying to talk to all the guys,” Dion says.

Segs laughs, sharp and a little mean. “You watch all of them piss or am I special?”

“You’re not special,” Dion says.

He regrets is as soon as Segs hunches his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Dion says. 

“Does that mean I shouldn’t put my dick away?” Segs asks. He laughs, brittle, as if one or two well-placed words from Dion will shatter him into a thousand pieces.

What the fuck was the front office thinking in bringing him to Toronto? 

“I guess it depends, are you done taking a piss?”

Segs zips up and washes his hands. He takes his time, more thorough than anyone Dion’s ever met. He won’t look at Dion. 

“I’m fucking this up,” Dion says. 

“This is not usually how my encounters with dudes in bathrooms usually go,” Segsy agrees. 

Dion’s head snaps up. Did the kid just--”Do you have no self-preservation instincts?” he asks.

“It’s not like you all aren’t thinking it.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t bother him that the entire team thinks he fucks dudes in bathrooms. “I know what I look like.”

“So, you do?” Dion asks.

“Aw,” Segsy drawls. “Do you think you’re special?”

He shoulders past Dion while Dion’s still stuck thinking  _ wow, he’s an asshole _ .

#

“Maybe, you should leave it to your As,” Kabby suggests.

Dion has a headache building and the season hasn’t even fucking started. “Kid thinks I hate him.”

“Or that you’re creepily hitting on him.”

“You’re zero fucking help.”

“You know,” Kabby says, “I was worried I was too old and jaded for this game anymore. I’m glad you’re here to remind me how to laugh.”

“Fuck you,” Dion says.

“Naw, I hear I’m about a dozen years too old for you.”

#

Seguin is good, but there’s a reason the Leafs secured the number two draft pick. 

The kid’s a center but playing center in Juniors is different than playing center in the NHL. On a different team, one with more depth or a better front office, he’d be eased into it. They’d stick him on the wing until he was comfortable with the speed of the NHL game and the size of the competition.

Instead, they stick him at center and try to shield him from the toughest of the match-ups. 

They lose their first game 2-5.

It’s not Seguin’s fault.

But he didn’t even put up a secondary assist and the reporters descend.

“It wasn’t the start I was hoping for,” Seguin says, and the words are right but his face looks fucking wrecked. 

Dion wants to bring him home and bundle him in a blanket and promise him things will get better. 

He goes home instead and takes a shot.

#

They drop the next two games.

New team, same Leafs.

#

They beat the Rangers on the road.

Seguin records his first NHL goal and they guys slip him a few shots on the plane ride home.

His cheeks are flushed by the time they land. He smiles so wide Dion’s afraid he’ll crack his face. 

He puts his hand on Bozie’s shoulder and pushes him towards their rookies.

“Huh?” Bozie asks.

“Tylers, you stick together.”

Seguin looks up at that, his lashes impossibly long. It must be the shadows or something. His smile grows even wider. “You listened.”

“Yeah, kid,” Dion says. He gives Bozie another push. “Don’t show up late to breakfast tomorrow.”

Seguin tosses off a lazy salute and drapes his arms over Bozie.

“You’re not even drunk,” Bozie complains.

Seguin pulls him closer.

#

They win some close games and lose in some blowouts.

It’s almost the end of October when they fly to Boston. 

After morning skate, a reporter sidles up to Seguin. “Did you hear the rumors that Boston wanted to trade Kessel for your draft pick this summer?”

“I didn’t,” Seguin answers. He hunches his shoulders and won’t look anyone in the eye.

He’s a terrible fucking liar.

#

_ Kessel  _ definitely heard the rumors or maybe he’s heard the fans booing him every night, because he plays like a man possessed. Dion shoulders him into the boards which feels good. Then, of course, Lucic has to fucking get in his face and once Dion swats him away, Chara’s there. 

“What happened to the Big Bad Bruins?” Dion sneers. “You can’t handle a little lovetap?” 

Chara, predictably, tries to wrestle him to the ice.

They both have to sit for two minutes, and the ref tells them that he expects the captains to set better examples for their teams. He and Chara share a look because that’s exactly what they were doing. 

With fifteen seconds left in the period, Kessel blows past Bozie then Schenn. He puts the puck past Gustavsson and the building erupts.

Dion really fucking hates the Boston fucking Bruins.

#

Seguin ends up on the ice against Bergeron and somehow strips the puck from his fellow Canadian, dodges Marchand and scores high glove side on Tim Thomas. He beams during his celly and as he skates through the fist bump line.

He plants himself on the bench next to Dion. “Couldn’t let you wish you had Kessel instead,” he says. 

Dion laughs and pats his helmet.

#

He isn’t laughing in the third period when Nathan _ fucking _ Horton takes a run at his rookie. Seguin wobbles on his skates but keeps his balance. Dion chucks his gloves and descends, a man full of rage and frustration with a convenient target. 

It’s a good fight.

Boston cheers as if Horton won then boos when he’s given a 10-minute misconduct on top of his fighting major. Dion bares his teeth at the fans behind the box and sits.

The Jumbotron flits to Seguin, his mouth hanging open, stunned. 

#

The game stays tied stayed until the final minute when Kessel snipes one to put the Bruins up by a goal. They pull Gustavsson but it isn’t enough.

They file down the tunnel as the crowd chants  _ Kessel’s ours  _ as if they weren’t booing him just last game. Fucking shitstain of a city. 

Dion makes sure to grab Seguin before the media slips into the room. “We’re glad to have you,” he says.

Seguin’s expression is stark, open and vulnerable for only a few seconds before his mouth twists. He knocks Dion’s hand away and stalks towards his stall.

Dion’s not sure how he always manages to fuck this up.

#

“I don’t remember being this high maintenance,” he confesses to Armstrong over beers. This is how he knows he’s old. He’s sitting on his patio with a beer after a game instead of finding some party or another or knocking back shots with his boys. 

At least he isn’t sipping wine yet.

That’s when he knows it’s time to retire.

“Superstars,” Army says with a shrug.

And, oh, that’s right. He came from Pittsburgh. “Crosby was like this?”

Army laughs. “There’s no one like Crosby. And, if there’s a higher power up there then there’s no one else like Segsy. One’s enough.”

Dion stretches out, his legs already beaten up and bruised and they’ve only made it through the first month of the season. He remembers when the seasons slipped by too quickly. He wished there were more games. He wished he could live on the ice.

Now…

Now, he’s not sure what he feels.

Tired, mostly.

“But guys like them…” Army starts then stops. He takes a sip of his beer. “They’re set apart. They’re a whole different class.”

“Yeah.” Guys who are bad at hockey don’t make the NHL. But there’s a difference between most of them and the Crosbys and Ovechkins. 

“It’s weird. They put me on his line which everyone shit on, because what the hell was I doing playing with talent like him? But he was talented enough they could put  _ anyone  _ on a line with him. I was there because I made him feel comfortable.”

Dion looks over, curious but afraid to break the moment, like if he talks then Army will clam up.

“They spend so much time apart from everyone that they don’t know what team is like. You and me, we can’t turn the game around on our own. We need all five guys to make something good happen. Sid...he looked so fucking surprised every time he realized someone liked him. Not his hockey but  _ him _ .” Army shakes his head. “This fucking sport man.”

“They’ve been calling him the next Gretzky since he picked up a stick. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him.”

Army shrugs. 

They drink for a bit in silence.

“Really fucking high maintenance,” Army finally says. “Do you think he waxes his chest?”

“I think he’s a child that can’t grow any kind of body hair.”

“He has  _ some _ ,” Army says. “You know, on his head.”

Dion laughs and tilts his face up towards the night sky. Soon it’ll be too cold to do this.

#

They play the Capitals and the media wonders if maybe there’s a Seguin-Backstrom trade in the works.

They play the Sabres and there’s speculation that maybe what Toronto needs is more defense. A Tyler-for-Tyler trade, Ennis or Myers, they aren’t picky.

Seguin’s a fucking octopus when they go out that night, clinging to anyone who’ll stay still long enough. Eventually, he hits the dance floor where no one cares how handsy he gets. At the end of the night, he’s flushed and happy, settled in a way Dion can’t remember ever seeing him in Toronto.

Which, of course, mean pictures come out. 

There’s at least a dozen of them. They’re all from the same night, showing him dancing with a variety of partners. The message is clear. Seguin’s a party boy. He doesn’t have the work ethic to be a difference maker.

Dion watches him curl in on himself and wonders what he’s supposed to do.

#

They’re shut out by the Lightning before they fly to Sunrise. Everyone’s tired when they get off the plane, but they aren’t quite ready for bed. Dion somehow ends up with Bozie and Army and Seguin. Seguin and Bozie have made themselves comfortable on one of the beds in their room. From the two bags at the end of it, it looks like they don’t intend on using them both.

Seguin lies with his head in Bozie’s lap, and Bozie absentmindedly plays with his hair. 

At some point, Seguin’s eyes flutter shut.

He falls asleep still in his travel suit. 

The wrinkles will be a bitch to iron out. 

But, as Dion watches Bozie’s fingers card through Seguin’s hair, he can’t help but think of his conversation with Army.

_ They spend so much time apart from everyone that they don’t know what team is like. _

Maybe it’s as simple as that.

#

“You should invite Segs to lunch with us,” Dion tells Kabby after practice.

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because he hates me and would probably say no.”

Kabby rolls his eyes. “Children are less dramatic than you are.”

He invites Seguin out, though, so Dion chalks it up as a win.

Of course, then it’s Dion, Kabby, Beauchemin, and Seguin and Dion realizes that they’re like a combined thirty years older than the kid. Seguin notices it right away. He glances between them, a little nervous. He hides it poorly.

“So, like, is this an intervention or something?” he asks. 

“We wanted to take you out to lunch,” Kabby says.

“Yeah?” Seguin’s smile slides into something more daring. His tongue flicks out over his bottom lip. “I think I’ve seen this movie before.”

Dion wonders if the kid knows he falls back on sex whenever he’s nervous. It would explain a hell of a lot of the hickies he shows up to morning skate with. But he shouldn’t be nervous around his team. Dion knows he’s screwed up this whole captain thing, but Seguin is a Maple Leaf. They kept their second overall pick, because they wanted him and now they have him.

The media may have soured on him, but no draft pick will live up to their expectations. They’ll heap dreams and hopes and fantasies on kids then turn their cameras on to record them as they crumble under the weight. But Dion isn’t the captain of the media. He’s the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs, and they’re happy Seguin’s one of them. 

They just need to show Seguin that.

#

“Only fifteen points in the first twenty games of the season,” one of the reporters says.

The rest of them crowd closer to Seguin so they can catch the downturn of his eyes and the way his shoulders draw up as if he can protect himself from their words.

It makes Dion’s blood boil. Sure, Seguin had a slow start, but Wilson keeps playing him against some of the best lines in the league. He can’t score if he spends all his shifts scrambling in his own zone because he’s out against Tavares and Stamkos and Giroux and Crosby. 

“He has eight points in the last five,” Dion says, brushing aside whatever question he was asked in his own scrum.

Seguin’s head snaps up, surprised, because the kid doesn’t understand subtlety or discretion. The reporters pick up on it and they turn so they can draw Dion into their frame. He makes it easy for them. He parts the crowd and sits next to Seguin on the bench. There isn’t much space for two full grown hockey players. He splays his legs and pretends the reason his knee touches Seguin’s is because there isn’t enough room for his thighs. 

“Do you think this is the beginning of a turn around for him?” 

“No. There’s nothing for him to turn around. He’s been steady this season, improving in leaps in bounds. He’ll continue to get better because that’s what happens when good players are challenged. They rise to meet it.”

Dion answers a few more questions even though he knows it’s pointless. All the headlines will read  _ Captain doesn’t think Seguin can turn season around  _ and every one of them will pull his words out of context and say  _ There’s nothing for him to turn around  _ to make it seem as if he doesn’t support his rookie.

He doesn’t fucking care what they say.

As soon as they file out, he places his hand on Seguin’s knee to keep him from bolting. 

“They’re going to print whatever shit sells their papers,” Dion says. “That’s what they do. Don’t believe them. Believe me. We want you here.”

“I--”

“Boston was interested in a trade,” Dion says and Seguin looks away. He grabs the kid’s chin and forces eye contact. “The front office said no. They wanted you. And now that we have you, we aren’t letting you go.”

Seguin’s lips part around words he can’t quite get out.

“The media will shit on you. At some point, the front office will too.” He holds Segs steady, because this is important. This is what he should’ve said from the beginning. “They tell you how great it is to play for a hockey city. How great it is to be in the NHL. A stadium full of fans. A future spilling out in front of you. Fans are fickle and management is prone to panic. But we’re here. Every single person in this room has your back. And you have theirs. Those are the two most important things.”

Dion chances a look up. Everyone’s staring at them. His gaze slides to Army and he prays that the man understands what Dion needs.

And Army, bless him, walks over and runs his fingers through Segs’s hair. He tips Segs’s head back. “Hey,” he says.

Seguin blinks, slow, as if his eyes might not open again. “Hey.”

Army grins and steps aside for Kabby then Beachemin. One by one their teammates walk up to tap Segs’s knee or touch his face or say a few words.

Bozie’s the one who smiles and says, “Us Leafs have to stick together, eh?” 

Seguin nods, dazed and a little overwhelmed. 

If he’s being honest, Dion’s feeling a little overwhelmed himself. Kabby appears next to him, his hand strong and steady as it grips the back of Dion’s neck. He leans in to whisper, “You’re good.”

“We’re good,” Dion whispers back.

For the first time in years, he actually believes it.

 


End file.
